


i only eat cake wrapped in black lace

by eddiepeach



Series: she's got that body (i swear ill eat it up) [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, BDSM, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Dominant Richie Tozier, F/F, Fem Reddie, Possessive Richie Tozier, Submissive Eddie Kaspbrak, Verbal Humiliation, daddy kink (with lesbians!), implied/reference gnc or mtf richie, not dark but grey richie tozier??, sugar daddy richie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:07:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27371668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eddiepeach/pseuds/eddiepeach
Summary: When her share of the rent comes in at far-too-much-for-a-carpeted-shoebox-three-bedroom-next-to-the-sketchiest-Subway-station-in-Queens, and Eddie already works two minimum wage jobs and is a part-time student at Columbia University, some late-night drinking with her friends leads to a half good, half bad decision.And that decision leads Eddie to this bar.--sugar daddy richie (surprise surprise) ruins eddie
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: she's got that body (i swear ill eat it up) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1999366
Comments: 26
Kudos: 97





	i only eat cake wrapped in black lace

**Author's Note:**

> i am aware that this is basically my last fic with a darker twist and im fine with that, im a simple woman with simple needs
> 
> i really went off and made a [pinterest](https://www.pinterest.ca/peacheyplease/shes-got-that-body-i-swear-ill-eat-it-up/i-only-eat-cake-wrapped-in-black-lace/) for this series

When her share of the rent comes in at far-too-much-for-a-carpeted-shoebox-three-bedroom-next-to-the-sketchiest-Subway-station-in-Queens, and Eddie already works two minimum wage jobs and is a part-time student at Columbia University, some late-night drinking with her friends leads to a half good, half bad decision. 

And that decision leads Eddie to this bar.

Eddie knew that these kinds of places existed in New York City—how could they not? The city is full of Wall Street businessmen, models, and the occasional celebrity, and therefore a truly stupid amount of money, but _The Painted Rose_ is a truly high end bar. 

There’s no menu on their website, which boasts—among other things—‘discretion.’ This is a place where rich men bring high-priced escorts to cheat on their wives and half-illegal business partners to have quiet conversations. Eddie knows that her date has money—her bank account is the healthiest it’s ever been—because she shamelessly googled Richie Tozier the moment she knew her full name and realized that her net worth is a very healthy 28 million dollars. The four hundred dollars Richie sent her just before she got in the car is equivalent to what Eddie makes in a week, earned only because she sent a very non-sexual mirror selfie of her outfit to a woman she met on the internet. 

She nods at the hostess as she takes her overcoat (black, oversized, cashmere—her style, but definitively not Richie’s, which elicits a strange feeling in her stomach) with a quiet, neutral smile. Resisting the urge to pull at the hem of her dress, she follows her to the back of the restaurant, looking around as discretely as she can, trying not to wobble in her four inch heels. 

Though she doesn’t feel overdressed, she feels out of place. Her body is too big, with too many curves and not enough angles to be here. Her tits, her ass, her thighs all jiggle when she walks. She takes up too much space. She looks ridiculous wrapped in black satin and lace, decorated with elegant gold jewelry like a round little girl wearing her grandmother’s heirlooms. 

“Your table, Mrs. Tozier.” The waitress stops a few feet from a table tucked against the window, overlooking the constantly-glowing lights of the city. Eddie pauses, staring at the woman seated at the table facing her, her head turned to stare out the window. 

There is orange lipstick on her mouth and safety pins dangling from her ears. 

“Mr. Tozier?” the waitress asks. 

The woman turns her head, and Eddie’s gaze absolutely does not catch along the hard line of their jaw, the deep shadow of their cheekbone, or the straight, high-bridged line of their nose. She’s so much _more_ in person. More stunning, more hard-lined, more all-consuming. Her fashion is also worse. She’s wearing a collared shirt that’s half orange and white striped and the other side is an orange and beige floral—perfectly acceptable patterns apart, but together they’re a little appalling and a little charming. _But_ , Eddie thinks, eyeing how many buttons Richie has undone, _I guess the view is okay_. She’s all hard lines, even down her chest, and there’s barely a curve to the side of her breast. 

Blue eyes glitter behind thick-framed, round black glasses and drag from Eddie’s wide eyes and exposed collarbones, to the heavy curve of her breasts, where they stop for a few moments, before continuing to the tuck and flare of her waist and hips, all hidden beneath skin-tight black satin, over the hem of her (very short) dress and the generous curve of her thighs to her bony ankles and intimidatingly high stilettos. 

Eddie feels exposed and strangely embarrassed, her cheeks flaring pink as the waitress stands next to her and waits patiently, still smiling neutrally, her hands clasped behind her back. 

“Eddie,” Richie says, her eyes back on her face. “Take a seat.” 

Eddie swallows and sits, her cheeks flaming pink. 

“I’ll take the Yamazaki on the rocks, if you don’t mind, Jen,” Mr. Tozier says to their waitress, without the usual condescension of the wealthy to the working. “And Eddie will have a glass of the Quinta do Novak port.”

Jen nods graciously, her hands still clasped behind her back. "Of course, Mr. Tozier," she says, nodding at her, before heading toward the bar at the opposite end of the dark room. 

“You’ll like this port, sweet thing," Richie says, sounding sure despite the fact that they’ve never met before. Jen returns with their drinks, placing first a tumbler in front of Richie, and then a wineglass in front of Eddie. She’s almost surprised by how quickly the woman returned, until she remembers the luxury the dark wood and dim lighting of the bar practically radiates. Richie's whiskey (Scotch? Bourbon? Rye? Eddie doesn't know the difference) is in a sparkly glass tumbler with an elegant gold rim, a single, perfectly round ice cube resting in the centre. Eddie's glass is also rimmed with gold, so clean it almost seems to shine, the liquid looking thick and indulgent. 

"Enjoy, Mr. Tozier," Jen says, and leaves.

"Why ‘mister?' Why not ‘miss?’” Eddie asks, swirling the wine in her glass, thinking about oxygen and sweet wine, and sweet wine and sex. 

Across from her, Richie shrugs, drawing Eddie's gaze to her broad shoulders beneath her black suit jacket and the inches of pale skin between the lapels that stretches towards Richie's sternum, so far she's certain the other woman isn't wearing a bra. 

“You call me sir.” Richie leans back in her chair and slings her arm over it, pulling her shirt dangerously far open, showing more of the barely-there curve of her breasts. Why don’t you call me ‘ma’am?””

“Because you don’t look like one," Eddie says, flushing. _Sir, please please let me cum, please!_ flashing in her mind as all their phone calls come swirling up. She takes a small sip of her wine. The sweet flavour bursts across her tongue and she hums, taking another sip. 

Richie grins. "Port," she says, "Some of the best in the world. Do you like it?" 

Eddie resists the urge to slam back the whole glass in one go, like she does with the shitty box wines she drinks with Bill and Mike in their equally shitty apartment. She nods, looking at her glass, the table, the window, because if she looks at Richie any longer she'll be caught in her hard, lean lines and the flush of desire that's scratching and crawling it's way up from Eddie's dripping cunt. 

"Eddie," Richie says, her voice cigarette-scrapes and low. "Look at me."

And Eddie does, her eyes instantly coming up to meet the eyes of the woman across the table, feeling just as round and too-much as she did walking through the restaurant. Richie's eyes have gone very dark. 

“Good girl,” she murmurs, and Eddie can't breathe. It sounds even better in person, without miles and a phone between them. Her pussy pulses between her legs. “You look like such a pretty little bitch in the outfit I sent you.” Richie's voice is casual, uncaring about the tables around them and the waitresses circling around the dimly-lit room. 

"Thank you," Eddie says, quiet. And then because she can’t give in already, because she wants to see if Richie is as respectful as she claims to be. “Ma’am,” she adds, her tone teasing. 

Richie laughs. "Please, baby, ma'am was my mother." It doesn't make sense but Eddie can't help the smile that pulls across her mouth. 

“And to think I was trying to be respectful, _Miss Tozier_ , maybe I should be seeing your mother instead.” This is really only adding to the heat between her legs, bubbling across her chest. 

Richie laughs, but something dark curls behind her laugh, something that bites and snarls for someone to rip and ruin. Eddie shivers. Just the thought of it makes her clench her thighs together. 

"I think my mother would be really gentle with you, doll," Richie says. This is a weird thing to talk about or even consider, but Richie's voice is low and convincing, holding Eddie tight in the grip of its wrongness. "She'd play with you really nicely." Eddie can't breathe. "But you don't want that, do you,—" In one smooth movement, Richie lifts her tumbler to her mouth and throws in back, downing two fingers of what Eddie is sure is an obscenely expensive whiskey in a single swig. "—my pretty slut?" 

If Eddie was flushed before, her cheeks are scarlet, now, basking in the bone-deep possessiveness that soaks through Richie's voice. 

She opens her mouth to say _something_ , but Richie isn't finished. 

"I don't think you want someone to treat you nicely, or you wouldn't have shown up to this date with me, would you? I dressed you up like a toy, ordered you how to do your makeup and your nails, told you you weren’t allowed to come.” Her wide mouth splits open on a wide grin, dripping with sex and blood. “Like you’re just a thing for me to play with—” She leans forward in her seat, like a gossiping teenager with a salacious secret. “—and it makes your cunt wet.”

Jen arrives at their table at that moment, and the pleasant, neutral smile on her pretty face doesn't move. She takes Richie's empty tumbler and replaces it with another filled with the same thick amber liquid. 

Eddie stares at it and knows that Richie is right. And more than that Eddie _asked_ for this. She told her, one night, dizzy post-orgasm, breathing that she wanted to belong to Richie, that she’d do anything. 

When she got a package early yesterday morning and read the instructions it contained, she obeyed each word to the letter while ignoring how it made her want to drop to her knees. It told her that her shifts at the coffee shop and the bar a few streets over had been covered for the next week and double her paychecks had been deposited in her account. 

That day, there had been an appointment for a wax for "whatever the fuck you want off, if anything." Eddie has requested a full-body wax, the first in her life. It ached and stung, especially on the inside and the back of her thighs, over her asshole and vulva. She had hoped, flushed and biting hard into her lower lip, that the aesthetician didn't notice how wet her pussy became as she ripped the hair off of her. She wasn’t thinking about the long, hard lines of limbs and jaws she’d seen in brief, blurry pictures, or the voice she’d heard in rough-edged videos of Richie, often drunk and stoned, crowing and cawing with her friends. She wasn’t thinking about something she’d learned just the day before—Richie was ‘like six feet? probably more idk,’ at least ten inches taller than Eddie. 

She woke up the next morning and ran her hands over her smooth skin, the reddened irritation from the day before gone, and tried not to touch herself. She took a shower, and tried not to touch herself. One of the instructions from the package had been not to come unless Richie allowed it; it only made her want it more. 

At 2 o’clock that afternoon, six hours before Richie was due to send a car for her (send a _car,_ who the fuck _is_ this woman?), Eddie gets her nails done at a salon with a full coffee and wine bar. The appointment had been paid for ahead of time, just like the wax the day before, and the nail technician—Laura—had already been instructed on how to do her nails. Eddie sipped a chai latte with oat milk and texted idly with Bill and Mike. Laura called her ‘Mrs. Tozier’ the entire time. Eddie tripped and stammered her way through attempting to correct her; Laura continued calling her ‘Mrs. Tozier.’ Eddie pressed her thighs together and watched as matte black and bright gold appeared on her long, rounded nails. 

She was allowed to open the boxes in the order they were marked at 6:00. Inside the box were more boxes, each marked with a brand she only recognized from celebrity Instagram tags; a Dolce & Gabbana dress, too-high black suede pumps and a matching clutch from Jimmy Choo, a matching gold jewelry set from Tiffany & Co., and a bra, panty, stocking, and suspender belt set from La Perla. 

The outfit is extravagant and _sexy_ —Eddie Kaspbrak is not sexy. She is plain and deeply ordinary, with wide thighs and heavy breasts that should be hidden under layers and men’s clothing four sizes too big even though she would rather feel pretty, delicate, looked after. 

The soft lace of the panties are wet with her slick, and she clings to the false hope that it has nothing to do with the way Richie treats her like a toy or a trophy. 

Except it _does_ make her cunt drip, and Richie Tozier and her broad shoulders, long-fingered hands, and wide, metal-and-sandpaper grin are responsible. 

Jen takes Eddie’s empty cup and turns to Richie. 

“She’ll take a water, thank you, Jen,” Richie says, her eyes still fixed on Eddie, one eyebrow raised, leaning back in her chair with her whiskey in her hand. 

“Of course, Mr. Tozier.” Jen nods at Eddie. “Mrs. Tozier.” 

Beneath her freckles, Eddie’s cheeks are a deep, rich pink, wet and wanting and feeling like a bought-and-paid-for whore, sitting in front of a stranger with her panties soaked through. The port is part of her flush, the rich liquor loosening her until her joints feel well-oiled and her knees itch to drop to the ground and beg. 

“Eddie,” Richie says, a warmth of warning colouring her voice. “Am I wrong?” 

Slowly, Eddie shakes her head. 

Richie laughs, running her hand through her thick, curly hair. Eddie gets distracted by the lean strength of the inches of forearm to movement exposes. 

“Of course I’m not. Everything that’s happened today made that pretty pussy of yours leak, hasn’t it, angel?” She sips at her whiskey. “The instructions in the box, the appointments, the outfit. The car.” Eddie feels undone and wanton, seconds away from bending to the will of this broad, bloody woman, 18 years older than her and seeking her out to break her. “The way I’ve ordered for you and Jen has always differed to me.” Eddie wants to sink to her knees. Did Richie ask Jen before she even arrived? Did she pull her aside and ask her to ignore Eddie, give her smiles rich with condescension and refer to her only as ‘Mrs. Tozier,’ like she was just Richie’s pet? Or did Jen just know? Did she take one look at this young, blushing, slutty thing in a tight short dress and _know_ that she belonged to Richie? “The fact that every person here thinks that the pretty girl I’ve got with me is probably a paid whore—and that would be better, wouldn’t it? It would be easier for you if this was just a job, but it isn’t.” One huge hand reaches across the table, palm up. Eddie places her own, smaller hand in hers. Her nails are immaculately finished, soft and moisturized; Richie’s are calloused beneath her tattoos, dirt under her short, round nails. Eddie’s mouth drops open as Richie squeezes her hand hard and brings her other hand up to grip her chin, her thumb rubbing over her lipgloss-tacky mouth. 

“You would be here even if I wasn’t paying you, because you _need_ this. You’re 18 years old and you’re sitting across from someone twice your age, your cunt so wet I can practically _smell it_ , begging to be caught and kept and _hurt—_ ” She bites out each word, violent and sharp, squeezes Eddie’s chin and hand hard as she does. “—just like pretty sluts deserve.” 

Gasping and lightheaded, Eddie nods. Her eyes are wide and glazed over, her mouth half-open, her cheeks flushing red, every part of her splitting open to make room for Richie. She feels hollowed out, like the parts of her that don’t really matter, the parts of her that aren’t useful to this woman, have been scraped away, left her empty and aching, desperate for something to fill up that space inside her. 

A sharp sting in her cheek. She makes an aborted half-moan as she realizes that Richie _slapped_ her, in public, in a restaurant full of sleek, powerful people. “Say it, darling, tell me who you belong to, who you _need._ ” Richie looks hungry and for a moment Eddie is terrified of her and her malicious bone dust smile, but then a thumb slips into her mouth and presses down on her tongue and Eddie wants something bigger filling her mouth and throat. She can’t think about anything else; all that matters is being filled up and used by Richie. 

She sucks the thumb in her mouth, drawing her tongue along it, and murmurs, “I’m yours, I can’t live without you.” 

“Good girl,” Richie says. She wipes her thumb, wet with Eddie’s spit, across the girl’s flushed cheek. The shine of the spit under the warm glow of the lights of the bar is perfect. Richie wants to see the shine of the lights on Eddie’s wet pussy. It would be easy, she knows, to hitch her tiny skirt up her thighs and over that perfect curve of her hips, pull down her lace panties and make her spread her legs, show off her glistening, dripping cunt to every person in the bar. The stupid bitch would bow to each of Richie’s demands with a whine and a request for more. She knows Richie will keep moulding her into the shape she prefers until all Eddie knows is that she is Richie’s property. 

Eddie whines when Richie drops her chin and lets go of her hand, abruptly throwing her whiskey back. It goes down smooth and dark, well worth its 210 dollars a glass The Painted Rose charges. 

“Be a good girl and come sit with me, baby,” Richie says, and chuckles as immediately Eddie stands, unsteady from the heat that radiates from between her legs, washing over her entire body. She wraps a lean, strong hand around Eddie’s slender wrist, and pulls her around the table and down onto Richie’s lap. Eddie gasps as Richie manhandles her into a more comfortable position, sitting side-saddle over Richie's legs, her little dress riding up her thick thighs. Even with one strong arm wrapped around Eddie's tiny waist, supporting her, and the other signalling Jen for another drink, Richie is the picture of cool, her dark hair tussled, her square jaw and proud nose, her dark blue eyes making her seem vibrant yet composed. Completely uncaring of the wet eighteen-year-old sprawled over her lap. Eddie whimpers, leaning against the older woman's chest. Her head rests against Richie's collarbone, still inches below her strong jaw, even with the added height. 

Jen brings Richie another drink with a neutral smile. Eddie expects her to walk away, like she has every time, but instead she makes eye contact with Richie over Eddie's head and says, "She's beautiful, Mr. Tozier. That dress is very flattering." 

And Eddie bites down hard on her lip, trembling as Richie places her drink down on the table and rests one huge palm on Eddie's soft thighs. 

"Yeah, she's a pretty little thing," Richie says, squeezing her thigh hard, looking at Jen. She chuckles roughly. "Not the smartest whore in the whorehouse, though." Richie pauses. "Whore in the whorehouse? Bitch in the brothel? Slut in the...? Something. Gloryhole, maybe. But anyways," Richie's hand has started massaging Eddie's thigh, slowly pushing her legs further apart and her dress up her thighs, inches of skin and garter now visible at the top of her legs. "She's good for something, if you know what I mean." 

Jen laughs and says something else, but Eddie can't hear anything. Richie, she realizes, has pulled her into her lap facing outwards towards the other guests, her back to the window and its opulent view of the city. There are business men, escorts, and movie stars all over the restaurant in front of her, and Eddie Kaspbrak is sitting on an older woman's lap with her garter belt showing. She makes eye contact with a handsome, older man a few tables away. Even in the dim light of the bar, Eddie watches him as his gaze trails over her exposed collarbones and full chest, to the spread of her hips and thighs from her little waist, all wrapped in black nylon, satin, and lace. He's sitting with his equally handsome date, a woman with square features and a generous bust, and he leans over to her, points to Eddie. The woman looks over appraisingly, winking as she makes eye contact with Eddie, whose cheeks flare red. 

The hand on her thigh squeezes hard then releases to slap her, the sharp sound concealing the whimper that spills from Eddie's mouth. 

She turns her head towards Richie, staring up at the woman's hard-edged features, a little in love with the darkness of her eyes and the orange of her mouth. Richie smirks, and her incisors seem to catch on her lower lip. 

Eddie shivers, because there's a warning in those teeth. The jewelry Richie picked out for her is a snake set, elegant and understated, with matching bangle, earrings, necklace and ring in shiny yellow gold. It matches her black clutch, a little gold snake curled around the clasp. She thought the snake was some sort of comment on Eddie herself, or perhaps an expensive and particularly elegant dick joke, and it may be some of that, but it's also a warning. Richie Tozier has fangs that drop around beautiful girls. Richie Tozier bites beautiful girls to claim them. Richie Tozier is dangerous. 

Richie slaps her thigh again, groping and rubbing possessively when the hit lands. 

"I thought you were here with me, darling," Richie murmurs in her ear, the hand at her waist tucking her closer to the unyielding line of Richie's body. 

"I-I am, sir," Eddie says quietly, a little moan slipping out of her glossy pink mouth. 

"Mm. That's what I thought, but then why are you making eyes at that couple over there, baby? Do you want them?" 

Eddie shakes her head hard. "No, sir, I don't, I promise I just—" 

"You're just what?" 

"I'm just—" 

"Cmon, baby, spit it I don't have all ni—"

"I'm just a slut, sir!" Eddie says, a little too loud—enough that the guests at the nearest table glance over discretely, pausing to take in the girl's heaving chest, the woman's huge hands pressed against her body. 

"That's right, baby girl, good job," Richie coos, biting into the shell of Eddie's ear, and sliding her hand all the way under her skirt, pushing it up her thighs until the lace of her panties shows. Eddie starts to protest, cheeks and chest going red, but Richie tucks two fingers between Eddie's plush thighs and presses them forward to rub against the girl's swollen clit, feeling the wetness of her slit. Eddie goes limp, leaning against Richie with a slutty, gasping moan. 

"Daddy," Eddie sighs, rocking her hips forward against the teasing pressure. 

"Look at you," Richie crows, delight sleeping into her words. "Humping my hand in a bar full of people, your tits half-out like a pretty little toy." And it's true, the dropped shoulders of Eddies dress have started to slip down even further, exposing more and more of her cleavage, her round breasts spilling over the top. 

"Yes, daddy, mm feels nice."

Richie grins like blood is dripping from gums and sinew stuck between her teeth. "I bet it does. Your little pussy been so wet, hasn't it, doll? Getting all dressed up and ready for daddy to use you like the little toy you are, not allowed to touch your slutty cunt—must be so hard for a bitch like you, huh, baby?" 

Eddie nods, eyes rolling back when Richie rubs her fingers against her more firmly. "So wet for your cock, please _please_." 

Richie brings the arm curled around Eddies waist up her ribs until her hand lands on her breast, which she squeezes hard at the same time that she rubs her fingers against the girl's clit. Eddie gives a high-pitches little noise and arches her back, thrusting her tits forward. Careful not to go too quickly, not wanting to shock her slut out of her revelry, Richie edges her fingers along the top of her dress, tugging at it a little. Not enough to send Eddie's gorgeous tits tumbling fully out, but enough to make the girl look even more like a dumb slut eager for cock. Richie smirks, squeezes her tit and slaps her thigh sharply to watch Eddie whimper and press into the pain. This one is the one she'll keep, the one she'll break down to mould into the wife and toy she wants. The effortless submission Eddie gives her is stunning, easy to shape and manipulate into the obedient, slutty desperation she’s been looking for. A beautiful woman in a subtle collar next to her on the red carpet, dressed in expensive, one-of-a-kind clothing, tits and ass and thick tanned thighs on display, someone whose sexuality and sluttiness is clear. She wants it to be clear that the power rests firmly in Richie's hands—that's Richie owns this young, beautiful woman. She’ll choose her outfits, pay for her jewelry, her clothing, and Eddie will suck her cock in gratitude, thankful for all that Richie has given her. The thought makes her groan and squeeze Eddie hard. 

With a quick glance around the room, Richie realizes that more than one table has focused their attention onto the two of them, fixed on her girl's big tits and thighs. As hot as the thought of spreading Eddie out for these strangers is, Richie knows full-on exhibitionism is on her soft limits list, and untested, unapproved strangers are hard nos. Public humiliation, though, that’s very much in the cards, and even talking about it over the phone had had Eddie begging to come, grinding her dripping cunt into a pillow. 

She noses against Eddie's cheek. "Eddie," she says clearly, just a little sharply, and withdraws her hand from Eddie's skirt, pulling it down a little. Reluctantly, her hand falls from her tit to her nipped in little waist. 

Eddie blinks and whimpers, grinding her hips into Richie's lap. 

"I know you're desperate for it, little girl, but there are people around watching you show off," Richie says, bringing her hand up from the girl's thigh to grip her chin and turn her face towards Richie's. 

"Do you like showing all these people how much of a slut you really are?" Eddie is still mindlessly rocking her hips down against Richie's legs, hungry for friction on her swollen clit, and she whimpers and sighs even as she looks Richie in the eye and says, "Yes, sir, I do, I love it, love that they know who I belong to.” 

“God,” Richie mutters, letting her hand grope its way down from Eddie’s thigh to her tight little waist to her hip and around to her ass, gripping hard. “Let’s go, baby, I need to use you.” 

“Nngh,” Eddie whimpers, blinking hard. She stands shakily, hyper aware of the wetness between her legs, the heat flushing along her chest and cheeks, how inches of her breasts and thighs are showing. She feels fucked out and dizzy, itching to drop to her knees and suck on Richie’s cock till she drools. Like she could come just from Richie’s words, from Richie’s hands where they settle on her ass, an arm propped around her waist to guide her to the front of the restaurant, from choking on Richie’s cock, when she finally gets the chance. Vaguely, she thinks of the word subspace, a word she’d learned while talking post breath-taking phone sex orgasm a few weeks before. 

“Enjoy your evening, Mr. and Mrs. Tozier,” Jen says as Richie taps her phone against the card machine. The waitress pulls Eddie’s coat from the rack and hands it to Richie, bypassing Eddie entirely. 

Richie laughs, loud and rough and braying. She tucks Eddie back into her side. “Oh, we will, Jen. I told you she’s good for something.” 

\---

After Richie makes sure she’s clear headed and aware enough to consent to getting into Richie’s car and going to her apartment in Crown Heights, Eddie starts to fuzz out again, her head stuffed full of cotton and her pussy and mouth achingly empty. Richie doesn’t touch her throughout the car ride. Eddie wants to touch herself but she’s good, she’s a good girl, so she doesn’t, though she whines and rubs her thighs together, brings her hands up to palm at her breasts. “Slut,” Richie says affectionately when she does. Eddie catches the eyes of the driver in the rearview mirror as he’s stopped at a red light. She shivers and spreads her legs a little wider. 

When the car stops, Richie opens the door for her, taking her hand as she steps out, still wearing her ridiculous 4 inch heels. Richie stays quiet until the driver pulls away from the curb and Eddie opens her mouth to ask if something’s wrong, suddenly self-conscious. Richie leans against the wall of her building, crossing her arms. A smirk pulls her mouth wide. 

“Take off your panties.” 

Even in the haze of _richiedaddypleasecock_ , Eddie startles. She crosses her arms. Richie’s gaze drops to her chest and she realizes that the movement presses her breasts together and up. “You want me to _what_?” 

“I want you to take off your panties.” 

Eddie stares at her. “You mean—” She swallows. “You mean inside, right?” 

“I know it’s hard for you, baby, but don’t be stupid. I asked you to do it, so you do it. That’s what happens when you belong to me.” 

And Eddie can’t help the flush that rushes through her, because she feels strung out and desperate and all she really wants is for Richie to take her into her apartment and bend her over, but, really, she’ll do whatever Richie wants. 

Eddie looks around furtively, aware of the houses facing towards her, several of them with their lights still on, feeling her heart thrumming in her chest and her pussy. She looks at Richie, holds her eyes as she draws the hem of her dress up until it rests above the curve of her ass, and brings her hands to the little black garter straps and unclips. 

“Good girl,” Richie says, addressing her thighs and the inches of her stomach and pussy as they’re exposed. “There are people around, baby, you sure you wanna move that slowly? I guess you are a slut,” Richie adds, still smirking, her hand shifted to her hips. Her jacket pulls open and Eddie catches sight of her almost-flat breasts, her hard nipples in the cold February air. She wants to get her mouth on Richie so badly she bends over to pull the panties off in one swift movement, miraculously keeping her footing even in her ridiculous heels. There’s a moment as she straightens and before she pulls her skirt down that she’s standing in public with her wet pussy smearing wet against her thighs, fully visible and framed by the black lace in the garter belt. She shivers, only partially because of the cold November air. 

“Very good, darling,” Richie says, finally coming closer to her, rubbing her (big, warm, _big_ ) hands over Eddie’s smooth shoulders and down her arms, covered in goosebumps. Eddie leans into the touch, holding her panties in one hand. “Now,” Richie’s goes low with something that’s almost amusement, like she’s enjoying doing humiliating Eddie like this. “Pull your dress down, doll, I want to see your tits.” 

“Richie,” Eddie whines, and feels herself crack open. “Please, I just want you to use me, please, daddy.” 

Richie laughs, cold and sharp. Eddie wishes it didn’t make her drip even more. “God you’re a slut. Show me your tits and then I’ll fuck you, okay, baby?”

“Want you to _use_ me,” Eddie corrects, pulling her dress down anyways, pulling at the black satin until her breasts spill out over the top. 

Richie looks transfixed, reaching out to hold her tits in her hands, pinching her nipples and groping her roughly. It feels good especially when Richie’s pinches her so hard she cries out, her back arching into Richie’s hold, feeling like an exposed nerve, the shivery soreness she gets when she pulls back the hood and rubs her finger over her wet clit after four or five orgasms. 

“Richie!” Eddie gasps as Richie picks her up in a bridal carry, tucking her into her chest. It’s a hold out of a fairytale, something sweet and romantic, but between Richie’s warm hands and the possessiveness of the way she moulds the soft parts of Eddie’s body against her, Eddie feels owned. 

They stumble up the stairs and fumble with the key, giggling and then moaning when Richie leans down to take Eddie’s still-exposed nipple in her mouth while she tries to slid the key into the lock. 

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you think. there will be a second chapter in the next week or two at most, but probably sooner 
> 
> come talk to me on [tumblr](https://eddiepeach.tumblr.com/post/633873876841037824/i-only-eat-eat-wrapped-in-black-lace-part-1-of)!


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